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THE IVORY GATE 



THE IVORY GATE 



BY 

ARMISTEAD C. GORDON 



Sunt geminae Somni portae ; quamm altera fertuy 
Cofnea, qua vetis facUis datur exitus umbn's ; 
Altera, candent: perfecia nitens elephanto ; 
Sed falsa ad caelum mittuni insomnia Manes. 

VIRGIL. 



New York and Washington 

THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 

1907 



{:.(<tiAHY of CONGRESS 
Iwu Oooies Received 

>t? 28 \90f 

j Cotjynirht Entry 
j OLMiif 4 XXC, No. 
I COPY 6. 



TSSi'is 



l7 



,0 573 

I')"? 



Copyright, 1907, by 
THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 



'When, loved by poet and painter 

The sunrise fills the sky, 
When night's gold urns grow fainter. 

And in depths of amber die, — 
When the moon-breeze stirs the curtain. 

Bearing an odorous freight — 
Then visions strange, uncertain. 

Pour thick through the Ivory Gate." 

Mortimer Collins. 



AUTHOR'S NOTE 

A majority of the verses in this little volume were 
■first printed at various times in literary periodicals and 
newspapers. "In Dreams" appeared in The Continent; 
'Tarson Murray," "Four Feet on a Fender," "Trans- 
formation," "Her Rival," "Ah, Si Jeunesse Savait," 
"Lip Service" and "Law at Our Boarding House" 
were contributed to the Bric-a-Brac department of the 
old Scribner's Monthly, which later became The Cen- 
tury; and "Enise" first saw the light in the columns 
of the Richmond (Va.) Transcript, in 1878. "The 
Little Old Church" and "Cast Out" were originally 
published in a New England monthly whose name I 
have forgotten, conducted, I believe, by Dr. Wash- 
ington Gladden; and "Long Ago" is embalmed in the 
faded pages of the long since defunct South Atlantic. 

Several of the others date back to a youthful asso- 
ciation with The Virginia University Magazine. 

They are all old, in the sense that they have been 
long written. They are all young, in that they speak 
to their author, with the pathetic voices of the Greek 
chorus, of days and friends that vanished with his 
youth : 

"We return, we return no more." 

A. C. G. 



CONTENTS 

Page. 

Dedication 1 1 

In Dreams I2 

Parson Murray 14. 

Four Feet on a Fender 17 

Transformation 20 

Enise 22 

"Toujours Jamais" 24 

Long Ago 26 

Her Rival 28 

"Ah, si Jeunesse Savait!" 30 

To Euterpe 32 

Idolatr}^ 34 

The Little Old Church 35 

Rome and Egypt "38 

Lip Service 39 

In June 42 

Caprice 44 

To One in Another Country 46 

Law at Our Boarding House 47 

The Judgment of Paris 49 

A Tree in Teviotdale 51 

The Siren's Song of Hylas 52 

Guinevere to Lancelot 53 

Cast Out 55 

By the Sea 57 

Tides 58 



DEDICATION 

TO ONE WHO WILL UNDERSTAND 

Only you can stir once more 
Pulses that my boyhood knew, — 
Open wide the bolted door, — 

Only you; 
Lead the lost hours dancing through 
Spaces luhere in days of yore 
Roses bloomed and skies were blue. 

Grim the gray years grow, and frore 
Gleams the frost where shone the dew. 
Naught those lost hours Tuay restore. 

Only you. 
Let me dream the old dreams o'er. 
Love is kind and faith is true. 
Seeing with youth's eyes once more 

Only you. 



IN DREAMS 

In dreams, when nights are cold, and winter winds are 
blowing, 
When the hoar-frost on the house-tops glitters in the 
chill moon's beams. 
Old summer days come back, with June's gala roses 
glowing 

In dreams. 

In dreams you wander with me beside the restless river 
Where the willows touch the surface and the ruffled 
water gleams, — 
And I watch the sunshine on it where the weeping 
willows quiver 

In dreams. 

In dreams your soft voice haunts me, and your love- 
speech, low and tender. 
As I bend my head to listen, like an angel's whisper 
seems : 
There is dew upon the grass there; and I catch the 
morning's splendor 

In dreams. 

In dreams no fate divides us; you are mine to love 
forever. 
How the wild birds carol o'er us, and the golden 
sunlight streams. 
Love is mirrored in your eyes, as the willows in the 
river, 

In dreams. 



In dreams, in dreams we part not. The day dawn and 
the morrow 
May take you; but each morning with the dreamer's 
vision gleams. 
Tou are mine when night recalls you, with your young 
heart free from sorrow. 
In dreams. 



13 



PARSON MURRAY 

Of James City, in Virginia 

Head peruked and shaven face, 
Stately step and air of grace, 

Suit severe of sombre black, — 
Smiles across his lips go fleeting 
While he gives my Lady greeting. 

With a swift bend of his back. 

"Dine on Thursday? What could be 
More delightful? Then, D. V., 

I shall be here on that day;" 
And a lowlier bow then made he, 
Kissed his gloved hand to my Lady, 

Mounted steed and rode away. 

Parson Murray. Past the road 
Where the fallow-fields lie broad. 

In the grove of trees up there. 
Parson's house-lights faintly glimmer 
As the evening light grows dimmer 

And more cool the evening air. 

Never voice of scolding wife 
Maketh sad the parson's life — 

Never voice of crying child ; 
And the winter evenings closing 
Find him reading, dreaming, dozing, 

Drinking knowledge undefiled. 



14 



Slippers for the parson's feet 
(Which, in sooth, are slim and neat) 

Soft white hands have made a score; 
And the bright eyes on him glancing 
Sometimes set his heart a-dancing; 

This they do, but nothing more. 

All the men the country round 

Fear his small-sword's lightest wound; 

In a fox-hunt no one's horn 
Is so lusty in its warning 
On the fine November morning 

Just before the sun is born. 

At the ball where all the girls, 
White arms bare and shining curls. 

Sparkling teeth and heavenly eyes — 
Set the young bucks' hearts a-tremble, 
Where the county's best assemble, 

Parson carries off the prize. 

To the gay young gallants there. 
Buckled pumps and powdered hair, 

Parson Murray yields no whit 
In the stately dance, whose measure 
Is the cadenced throb of pleasure, 

Grand old dance, the minuet. 

Never any yeoman wight 
Stripped more gladly to a fight 

Than he to the boxing-glove; 
And a brooklet's voice at vesper 
Is not sweeter than his whisper, 

When a lady lists his love. 



15 



In the dining-room,' my Lord, 
Standing by the huge sideboard, 

Watches with admiring eyes 
How the parson brews the toddy, 
Saying it is very odd, he 

Cannot make it in such wise! 

Tithe and cummin, anise, mint, 
Hath the parson without stint, 

Hath as well the people's trust. 
Many in his years spent there 
Hath he christened, and with prayer 

Many given back to dust. 

Not a kindlier heart than his 
Ever stirred a breast, I wis; 

Never smiled a sweeter face ; 
And his pure unselfish nature 
Works delight for every creature, 

Beast and bird and human race. 

Well he knoweth hymn and psalm; 
When the Sabbath's holy calm 

Spreads its benison o'er earth. 
Well he reads: "Good Lord, deliver!" 
Well for life's gifts thanks life's Giver: 

Praises God for death and birth. 

Many years have passed away 
Since in old Colonial day 

Knelt the people at his word. 
In the county of Jame^ City, 
(On his tomb-stone "Christ have pitie!") 

Sleeps the parson with the Lord. 



i6 



FOUR FEET ON A FENDER 

It is anthracite coal, and the fender is low, 

Steel-barred is the grate, and the tiles 
Hand-painted in figures; the one at the top 

Is a Japanese lady, who smiles. 
There's an or-molu clock on the mantel; above, 

A masterpiece: fecit Gerome; 
On the fender four feet — my young wife's feet and 
mine, 

Trimly shod, in a row and — at home. 

My slippers are broidered of velvet and silk, 

The work of her fingers before 
We stood at the altar. To have them made up 

Cost me just a round five dollars more 
Than a new pair had cost at my bootmaker's shop ; 

But each stitch was a token of love — 
And she never shall know. Ah, how easy they are 

On their perch the steel fender above. 

Words fail me to tell of her own. There's a chest 

In her father's old garret ; and there 
'Mid a thousand strange things of a century past 

She discovered this ravishing pair. 
They are small, trim and natty; their color is red; 

And they each have the funniest heel. 
White balbriggan stockings, high-clocked, underneath 

These decollete slippers reveal. 

17 



Ah, many a time in my grandfather's day 

They led the old fellow a dance. 
They were bought with Virginia tobacco, and came, 

Who would guess it? — imported from France. 
How odd that yon stern-faced ancestor of mine 

In the earlier days of his life 
Should have loved her who tripped in these red slippers 
then, — 

The young grandmamma of my wife! 

The course of some true loves, at least, runs not 
smooth, — 

And I'm glad that it's so, when I see 
The trim, dainty feet in the red slippers there 

Which belong to my lady — and me! 
Two short months ago in this snug little room 

I sat in this soft-cushioned seat ; 
No companion was near save my pipe. Now, behold 

On the polished steel fender four feet! 

Let them prate of the happiness Paradise yields 

To the Moslem, — the raptures that thrill 
The soul of the Hindu whom Juggernaut takes, — 

The bliss of Gan-Eden ; — and still 
I'll believe that no gladness which man has conceived 

Can compare with the tranquillized state 
That springs from two small feet alongside one's own, 

On the fender in front of his grate. 



i8 



L'Envoi 

In vain the illusion. The trim feet are gone. 

They trip by my door every day; — ■ 
Yet they stop not nor tarry ; but swiftly pass on, 

Nor can I persuade them to stay. 
And a bachelor's dreams are but dreams at the best, 

Be they never so fond or so sweet. 
The anthracite blaze has burned low; and behold 

On the fender two lonesome old feet ! 



19 



TRANSFORMATION 

If it be true that Time doth change 
Each fibre, nerve and bone, — 

That in a seven-years' circling range 
New out of old hath grown, — 

Time's a magician who hath made 
A mystery passing strange: — 

No outward symbol is displayed 
To hint the subtle change. 

Whate'er the magic he hath wrought 
Within his seven years' span. 

Your life is yet with beauty fraught 
As when the charm began. 

The rounded form of other years 
Still keeps its crowning grace ; 

And June, for April's earlier tears, 
Plants roses in your face. 

But your great beauty touches me 

Now, in no other w^ay, 
Than doth the splendor of the sea, 

The glory of the day. 

I dreamed I loved you in past years, 

Ah! that was long ago. 
How far the time-blown love-vane veers 

This rhyme may serve to show. 



The shifting seasons soon enough 
Beheld the bright dream fade; 

I learned to know the fragile stufiE 
Of which some dreams are made. 

We meet now with a kid-gloved touch, 
Mere 'courtesy each to each ; 

That earlier hand-clasp overmuch 
Outvies our later speech. 

And so, perhaps, it may be true 

That, as you pass me by 
In careless wise, you are not You, 

And I'm no longer I. 



2Z 



ENISE 

Very fair you are, Enise, 

For you hold 

In your eyes 
All the blue of summer skies, 
In your tresses all the shimmer 

Of red gold. 

And your cheeks are pink, Enise, 

As a rose; 

And your mouth 
A sweet blossom of the South ; 
And tip-tilted like its petal 

Is your nose! 

And that form of yours, Enise, 

Lacks no grace 

Lilies wear; 
And your bosom's swelling heave 
Tells of sprites imprisoned there, 

I believe, 

That would fain be free, Enise, 
For awhile. — 
Yet your charms, — 
Eyes and hair and throat and arms,- 
None of these, Enise, bewitch me 
Like your smile. 



Did you ever know, Enise, 

Of that creed 

Which the old 
Rabbins of the Talmud hold 
Of all spirits? Should I tell you, 

Would you heed? 

You have lived alway, Enise, — 

Thus they say, — 

At the birth 
Of your body on the earth, 
Passed your ever-living soul 

Into this clay. 

And your guardian angel came, 

Spread white wings 

O'er you there, — 
Touched his finger to your lips 

With a prayer, — 
And you knew no longer ante-natal things." 

As the Rabbins, I, Enise, 

Hold it too: — 

When those wings 
For a moment are uplifted 

Memory brings 
Visions of a happier life 

Back to you. 

Do you marvel thoughts like these 

Should beguile 

Minds like mine? 
I can nothing else divine 
That could lend such holy sweetness 

To vour smile. 



23 



"TOUJOURS JAMAIS" 

'Twas a waltz of Weber they played that night, 

And she was the gayest dancer there, 
For her swift feet twinkled in rhythmic flight 

As a bird's wings through the air. 
"One turn!" I pleaded, and heard her say. 

Through the music of oboe and violoncello, 
"You are just too late!" And she slipped away 

In the arms of another fellow. 

Her face was so honest and frank and fair, 

Her figure so lithe and trim and neat, — 
Such a faint gold tinge in her silken hair, 

Her voice so low and sweet, — 
That heels over head in love I fell; 

And all through that dreamy summer weather 
I flattered my soul that she loved me well — 

When we were alone together. 

I purchased her bonbons, I gave her flowers, 

And day after day in some shady nook 
I read to her love-songs in lazy hours 

From some red-lined, gilt-edged book. 
I dreamed, as the summer faded away, 

I was tying a knot no time could sever, — 
For my ring that she wore had "Toujours jamais" 

Thereon ; and that's forever. 



24 



Month after month I followed my quest. 

A bud from her bosom, a smile from her lips, 
Would thrill my heart with a vague unrest, — 

Or a touch of her finger tips. 
Yet no matter the time, no matter the place, 

Where roses blossomed, when leaves turned yellow, 
She'd leave me alone with a smile on her face 

At a word from that other fellow. 

Though perturbed thereat, I could but beguile 

My heart with "a spoiled girl's coquetry!" 
For she ever gave me her fondest smile — 

When the other one was not by. 
And I built air-castles out in Spain 

In a most extravagant, reckless fashion; 
And my heart-strings echoed their one sweet strain, 

To the touch of a master-passion. 



L' Envoi 

That was long ago; yet whenever at night, 

From my neighbor's parlor across the way 
That waltz of Weber rings, airy and light, 

'Neath her fingers' magic sway. 
Old thoughts come back in a mystic maze, 

With the music of oboe and violoncello. 
Of the treacherous girl with the frank, fair face, 

Who married the other fellow! 



25 



LONG AGO 

Long ago, when life was younger, and life's burden 
cast no shadow, 
When the gladness of existence had a summer foun- 
tain's flow. 
Side by side we tro4 dim woodland, river-bank, or 
haunted meadow. 

Long ago. 

Long ago faint odours held us in the purple fields of 
clover. 
Subtler in its sweet suggestion than all other blooms 
a-blow ; 
Hand in hand we sat together where the clover-heads 
hung over, 

Long ago. 

Long ago, in magic distance there were silver voices 
singing, 
And the far-off cow-bells tinkled where the cows 
came home, a- row; 
Waist-deep in purple blossoms did we listen to that 
ringing, 

Long ago. 

Long ago old joys possessed us with an undefined, 
strange yearning ; — 
Loving and beloved, we recked not in Love's golden 
after-glov/ 
How Youth passed us, like a dream to the dreamer 
unreturning. 

Long ago. 

26 



Long ago the hand I clasped there had its loving hand- 
clasp broken, 
And the voices ceased from singing; and the cow- 
bells, faint and low, 
Died away as died the echoes of the words that we had 
spoken 

Long ago. 

Long ago down paths divergent our parted ways we 
wended ; — 
Through no scented meadow, mine, with its clover 
blooms a-blow. 
Has Love's sunset come for you? My heart's gay 
summer ended 

Long ago. 



27 



HER RIVAL 

(At Long Branch. Season of i88o.)* 

"The belle?" 'TIs hard to say. And yet 

There is a Cuban here — 
"Handsome?" Well, yes. "Her style?" Brunette- 

The darling of her sphere. 

I've watched her, and she never moves 

But some man vi^alks close by ; 
And yet there's no one w^hom she loves 

Or hates — . "The reason why?" 

Just wait a little, ma cherie: 

"Her manners?" Neither grave 
Nor gay. "The golden mean," you say; 

And yet the women rave — 

"In praise?" Ah, no! One seldom hears 

Her lauded by their lips; 
Yet the sweet silence that she wears 

Their malice doth eclipse. 

"Brilliant?" At times. This nut-brown maid 

Shines brightest when she meets 
Her match. Thus conflict oft, 'tis said, 

Inspires the doughtiest feats. 



♦Paraphrased from a society letter in the newspaper press. 
28 



"Her style of beaux?" Both young and old 

Yield fealty to her sway : 
Blonde beauty with his beard of gold, 

And ugliness in gray. 

Last night we sat 'neath the summer moon, 
And her breath was like the rose; 

And odours as sweet as buds in June 
Follow her where she goes. 

"I love her?" Truly, that I do. 

'Tis not long since I spoke 
My love. I don't mind this to you,— 

It ended all in smoke! 

What, crying? "Hate her?" Then, I fear 

I've carried the jest too far: 
No rival is she of yours, my dear, — 

And her name is just — Cigar! 



29 



"AH, SI JEUNESSE SAVAIT!" 

Had Youth but known some years ago, 
That freckled-faced small girls would grow, 

In most astounding way, 
To lovely women in whose eyes 
The light a man most longs for lies — 

Ah, si jeunesse savait! 

Had Youth but known — my youth, I mean, 
That you would walk as regnant queen 

Of hearts in this new day — 
That elfin locks could change to curls 
Softer than any other girl's — 

Ah, si jeunesse savait! 

Had youth but known the time would come 
When I sho.uld stand, abashed and dumb, 

With not one word to say, 
Before you, whom in days gone by 
I'd tease until you could but cry — 

Ah, si jeunesse savait! 

I little dreamed in those old days 
Of undeveloped, winning ways 

To wile men's hearts away — 
When wading in the brook with you 
I splashed your best frock through and through. 

Ah, si jeunesse savait! 



30 



Your pretty nose — ah, there's the rub, — 
I used to laugh at once as "snub" 

Is now nez retrousse ; 
Upon the one-time brown, bare feet 
You wear French kids now, trim and neat, — 

Ah, si jeunesse savait! 

The brief kilt-skirt, the legs all bare, 
The freckled face, the tangled hair. 

These things are passed away: 
You are a woman now full grown. 
With lovers of your very ow^n — 

Ah, si jeunesse savait! 

You'd plead to be my comrade then. 
With tearful big, brown eyes. — Ah, when. 

My winning, winsome May, 
Will words like those your lips a-tween, 
Come back again ? No more, I ween ! 

Ah, si jeunesse savait! 

Time turns the tables. It is meet, 
Doubtless, that I here at your feet 

Should feel your sceptre's sway — 
Should know you hold me 'neath your heel, — 
Should love you — and should — well, should feel; 

Ah, si jeunesse savait! 



31 



TO EUTERPE 

(An American Girl) 

With cinctured robe and banded hair, 

On feet with sandals shod, 
She came, whose heavenly name you bear, 

The daughter of a god. 
Cycles of years ago. She came 

From Grecian woods and streams, 
To set the hearts of men aflame, 

And fill their days with dreams. 

You come a newer day to bless. 

To banish grief and care, 
To stir men's souls with happiness 

In visions no less fair. 
To fill our hearts with dreams you come, 

Lovely and free from blame, 
With songs of peace and hope and home, 

As long ago she came. 

The trumpet of the soul to shrill, 

To brim the eyes with tears, — 
To break sad hearts with joy, — are still 

Her glory through the years. 
Not yours to bid life's pulses beat 

With passions fierce as these : 
And yet your words, like hers, are sweet 

As Hybla's honeyed bees. 



32 



With cinctured robe and banded hair, 

On feet with sandals shod, 
She came, whose radiant name you bear, 

The daughter of a god, — 
The maid of lyric song. That name 

She bore, you do not wrong: 
With love you set our hearts aflame, 

Yourself a heavenly song. 



33 



IDOLATRY ' 

Words of praise and prayer enthral 
All your soul that worships where, 

With the lights and shadows, fall 
Words of praise and prayer. 

O'er your slight form bending there 

Rings the fluted choral call, — 
Sunbeams haloing your hair. 

All the soul that in me lives, 

Spent with sin and fraught with care, 
Only for your beauty gives 

Words of praise and prayer. 



34 



THE LITTLE OLD CHURCH 

I went to the little church to-day 

Over the brook, beyond the hill. 
It looks as it looked when I went away, 

Green-yarded and white-paled still. 

I was a youth when I crossed the sea 
To wander in foreign lands, and lo! 

Now there is gray in my beard. Ah, me! 
Can it be so long ago ? 

There used to be in those far-back years 

A little girl with a happy face. 
And a sweet, strange fashion of smiles and tears, 

And a young fawn's agile grace, 

Who sat each Sunday serenely there 

In that little church, where the sunlight fell 

Through the window over her yellow hair 
And over her face — ah, well! 

Ah, well! And I — oh, that little maid, 
I loved her truly. Each Sabbath day 

I'd go there and watch how the sunshine played 
In her hair, ere I went away. 

Ere I went away. That was long years back, 
And now I am middle-aged, forsooth. 

It is hard that a brave, strong lad, good lack. 
Must give up his brave, strong youth. 



35 



While a little church for years can seem 

Unchanged. Why, to-day they sang that strain 

That they sang long ago, — it was like a dream 
Of my dead youth come again. 

I sat in a dim, back-corner pew 

Where I sat when a boy, and closed my eyes, 
Till thoughts of the past and the present grew 

Into solemn mysteries. 

I dreamed I was young again, — that there 
In the seat three paces in front of me 

The sunshine was dancing on yellow hair, 
And I thought: "Can this thing be? 

"I went to her grave 'neath the churchyard tree 
On this very morn, ere I came in here. 

Where I thought of the things that used to be 
Till I felt on my face a tear. 

"And now to think if I open my eyes 

I shall see her kneel in that pew and pray 

With a soul that is ready for Paradise — 
As I did ere I went away!" 

I opened my eyes and looked, but lo! 

The pew was empty. The sunlight strayed 
Up and down on the cushioned seat, as though 

It sought for the little maid. 

A butterfly drifted in, and flew 

For a moment about, then out again. 

"Into my life she came, like you. 
And went," I faltered in pain. 

36 



And the pastor read, "Even as water spilled 
On the ground that cannot be gathered again 

Are the children of men," and the sad words filled 
My soul with a sadder pain. 

When lo! the butterfly drifted in 

Once more, and the pastor's lips then read, 

"As little children are, free from sin." 
"She is gathered to God," I said. 

And I said, "You w^ent, but you have returned. 

I shall see her again in the years to be, — 
In the years to be!" And my cold heart burned 

By the wayside there in me. 

I had not entered for many years 
A church of Christ as I did to-day. 

Till_ this morning mine eyes had not known tears 
Since the time when I went away. 

I think I shall go to this church always. 

Till they carry me out to the graveyard tree, 

For the sake of that dear girl's sweet young face, 
And the daj^s that used to be. 



37 



ROME AND EGYPT 

With flower-face nestled close against his heart, 

And upturned eyes wherein the love-lights wake 

To fade away in tears for sweet love's sake, 

And clinging arms, and lips that smile apart. 

And whispered words that set the heated blood 

Marching to fiery music, and perfumes 

Subtle as stealthiest thieves, fit for the mood 

Of loves like theirs, and in her breast white blooms 

Of lotus, drifted on the ebb and flow 

Of passion's tides, she holds him in her thrall. 

Oh, he could wish no deeper joy than so 

To die! Her dusk hair were a funeral pall 

Meet for a king, and death itself were sweet 

If her encircling arms might be his winding sheet. 



38 



LIP SERVICE 

(In York Town Church, 1773. Modertiized fro/n an 
old MS.) 

Outside the church the breezes blow 

And wave the summer trees. 
The fans within go soft and slow 

To stir a fainter breeze. 
The clerk doth shrill with thin voice cracked 

His keen falsetto strain, 
While in the family-pew, high-backed, 

Behold our lovers twain. 

Arranged in filmy furbelows. 

Cool things of fluffy white, 
Shod with high heels and pointed toes, 

She is a winsome sight. 
A blue cocked hat, bewrought with braid. 

Her dandy sweetheart bears, 
With shorts, high hose and coat, — well made 

The raiment that he wears. 

"Good sooth," he thinks, his love beside, 

"When such a hap shall be, 
This bonny flesh and blood my bride, 

What gladder heaven for me?" 
The well-closed door from gossip's view 

Doth shut them, saints be praised! 
This fashion of her father's pew 

His seven wits hath dazed. 



39 



He holds the corner of her book 

The while she bends in prayer. 
"What matter if one kiss I took — 

A trifle light as air?" 
Her breast scarce heaves, her face is meek, 

Her eyes are in eclipse: 
"Or shall I touch it to her cheek, 

Or lay it on her lips?" 

She little knoweth what rash thought 

His bosom doth possess: 
Her soul, on heavenly pinions caught, 

Forgets earth's earthiness. 
All worldly love and wordly dreams 

Are lapsed in heaven-born bliss. 
A most unmeetful time, it seems, 

For our bold lover's kiss. 

Thoughts heavenward borne on wings of prayer 

Slight hap to earth may draw. 
The soft salute doth miff our fair, 

And on his nearer jaw 
With mittened hand she plants a thwack 

Which kindles all his rage. 
Forth pew and church to good steed's back, 

His anger to assuage! 

No Sabbath ever more shall see 

Our lovers in yon pew 
From selfsame book the Litany 

Lovingly going through. 
No fee from him of Spanish eight 

Stowed in a buckskin glove 
The parson ever shall elate 

To preach their wedded love. 



40 



L'Envoi 

A time for all things, ladies gay, — 

Times, gallants, for each thing, 
Since Love may go, or Love may stay 

Who hath a fickle wing. 
Lip-service fellows not with prayer, — 

Ye may not woo in church, 
Lest kisses welcome otherwhere 

Here leave 3^ou in the lurch ! 



41 



IN JUNE 

The beetles boomed In the corn, 
And the wheat-shocks stood a-row, 

And the roses bloomed on that summer morn 
When we parted, years ago. 

The woodbine to the breeze 

Its trailing banners flung, 
And little birds piped in the leafy trees, 

And love and life were young. 

It has been so long, I forget 

Why it was that we quarreled there, 

Although I can well remember yet 
The red rose in your hair. 

But lost are features and form: — 

A hazy passion of tears — 
A vision of sunshine after storm — 

These are all, in the lapse of the years. 

And I sigh to think how soon 

We forget and are forgot, — 
How the stem that vaunted its bud in June 

In the autumn knows it not. 

Your face? I forget your face — 
I forget our love words there, — 

But never that June day's perfect grace, 
Or the glor\'- of that air. 



42 



And it still is sweet to me 

To recall the rustling corn, 
And meadow, and bird and leafy tree, 

And the light of that June morn, 

And the scarlet and green that showed 

Where the trumpet-flower clung, 
And the gold where the heart of a red rose glowed, 

When life and love were young. 



CAPRICE 

She's the winningest face — 

Not another's so fair is — 
In the eyes of the writer, at least, of this ditty, — 

Wears velvet and lace — 

If she likes — and her hair is 
The color of amber — a girl from the city, 

And they call her Caprice. 

Most appropriate name — 

Such a variant creature 
I never have met with before, upon honor: 

One moment all flame. 

Then like ice is her nature; 
And at one time I bless her, and then I "Plague on 
her!" 

This fickle Caprice. 

At the utmost eighteen 

I should say that her age is; — 
She promised to tell me, but never has done it. 

She walks like a queen — 

I could write twenty pages 
About the slim foot with the button boot on It, 

That belongs to Caprice. 

In her luminous eyes 
Gleams a mischievous madness ; 
As blithe as a bird's song her musical laughter. 
But I've seen with surprise 
The dark shadows of sadness 



44 



Steal into those eyes when the silence came after — 
So quaint is Caprice. 

I've repeatedly made 

The most serious endeavor 
To guess at her secret, to fathom her nature; 

But the sunshine and shade 

Interchanging forever 
Only make more mysterious this charming young 
creature, 

Whose name is Caprice. 

With her hand on my sleeve, 

And her arch face turned to me, 
She says, "I adore you!" one moment; then straightly 

Says, "No, I believe 

'Twas but fancy: let go me! 
I hate you!" and walks from the room very stately. 

Funny girl is Caprice! 

I've a notion the mood 

Of her sunniest spirits 
Belongs to the mortal that clothes her, — her gladness 

Was born with her blood ; 

But her young soul inherits 
From the garden of Eden those shadows of sadness 

In the eyes of Caprice. 

However this be. 

Of one fact I am certain: 
She promised to — 'What is this rhyme you're inditing? 

Is it written to me? 

Then I really will — " (Curtain. 
Who would know just what happened, apply, please, 
in writing, 

To me — not Caprice!) 

45 



TO ONE IN ANOTHER COUNTRY 

'To a boon Southern country they have fled"- 

Matthew Arnold. 

The small, sweet violet's blue eyes peep 

From out its hood of leaves. 
The glad world wakens from its sleep, 

And swallows haunt the eaves. 

Once more returns a subtle sense 

Of quickening pulse and breath ; 
Returns once more, I know not whence, 

Sweet life, where all was death. 

And yet from this heart-breaking air 

I miss thy words of cheer. 
Thy smile, thy touch ; and know not where 

Thou art, who art not here. 

To some boon country thou hast fled, 

Whose confines pass my ken. 
I only know thou art not dead, 

And we shall love again, 

Where small sweet violets blow like these, 

And every fragrant thing, 
And swallows build, and sky and breeze 

Speak of an endless spring. 



46 



LAW AT OUR BOARDING-HOUSE 

As fresh as a pink on the other side 

Of the boarding house table she sits, and sips 

Her tea, while I envy the china cup 
That kisses her rosy lips. 

She's a schoolgirl still in her 'teens. Her hair 
She wears in a plait. We are vis-a-vis, 

And I am a briefless barrister — 
Yet she sometimes smiles at me. 

My law professor would scowl, no doubt, 

Could he know what havoc those eyes have wrought 
With the doctrines of law he first instilled ; — 

What lessons those lips have taught. 

"The clerk will issue a rule to plead, 

And pleadings always with rules must chime." — 
No need of "a rule to plead" with her, 

And her rule-days are — all the time! 

That old law-maxim that text-books teach 

And the judges regard, "Qui facit per 
AUu?n, facit per se" is held 

In ineffable scorn by her. 

In her person exist together at once 

Defendant and judge and jury and clerk, 

So that one would imagine to w^'n a cause 
In this court were an up-hill work. 



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Yet whenever I sit at the table there, 

I fancy a table where only two 
Are company — till I say to myself : 

"Though you lose the case, why, sue ! 

"E'en though she demur at first, who knows? 

For the rest of your joint lives, made one life, 
You may learn together the lesson taught 

In respect to Husband and Wife." 

Still I dally in doubt, though in other things 

I flatter myself I am resolute. 
For a bankrupt heart will be the result 

If I'm taxed with costs in this suit. 



48 



THE JUDGMENT OF PARIS 

All day upon the Idan hills 

King Priam's Paris lay, 
Keeping his father's bleating flocks, 

Dreaming his life away; 
Till round about him happy there 

Gathered a glorious three: 
Star-eyed Athene, high Jove's spouse, 

And Venus of the Sea. 

And Priam's son must needs adjudge 

A golden apple there, 
Whereon was graven, "Let me be 

A prize to the most fair." 
So she whose cradle was Jove's brain 

Said, "Give to me, I pray. 
And take thou wisdom to thy part. 

And knowledge and wide sway." 

Then ox-eyed Juno spake, "Give thou 

This bauble unto me. 
So shalt thou have all wealth that springs 

From land or sky or sea." 
But foam-born Venus, tossing back 

The splendor of her hair. 
Unto the royal shepherd's gaze 

Her silver breasts laid bare, 



49 



Saying, "Behold! And if this prize 

Shall well awarded be, 
Then gainest thou a love as fair 

As Venus of the Sea!" 
So Paris with his heart aflame 

Bestowed it in his joy. 
And this is how sweet Helen came 

To fire the heart of Troy. 

Long since the bleating flocks have died 

That Paris watched that day ; 
Nor do Olympian dwellers now 

O'er Ida make their way. 
Yet still, as Paris did of old, 

Do men take heart of grace 
To barter wisdom, power and gold 

For Beauty's Helen-face. 



50 



A TREE IN TEVIOTDALE 

"I^s steht ein Baurn in Odenwald 
Das hat viel grune Aest' " 

By Teviotside a braw beech-tree 
His branches flings fu' high. 

A thousan' times my luve an' me 
Ha'e passed his shadow by. 

A throstle whusslit there his sang 
Through the blithe simmer day; 

We hearkened, loiterin' alang, 
Loof linked in loof, that way. 

Adoun the path but late I hied, 
The beech-tree's leaves were gane; 

Anither lad walked by her side, 
An' reft frae me mine ain. 

In Teviotdale the tree still stan's, 

An' I'm in Aberdeen 
Wi' achin' heart an' empty ban's, 

The wearies' mon e'er seen. 



51 



THE SIREN'S SONG OF HYLAS 

Hylas is coming through the wood, 

The birds sing over him where he goes ; 

The smell of the gum trees melts his mood, 
Under his foot is the red wild-rose. 

Fair Larissa shall mourn for him 
Rapt from her bosom, as in a dream 

The lapsing moons and the waters dim 

Steep him in slumber beneath this stream. 

I have netted my hair in a cunning snood 
To capture and keep the beautiful one. 

The breath of my beauty shall stir his blood, 
I will hold him fast when the dusk slips down. 

He shall forget in his perfect pleasure 
The sorrows of them that bend the oar. 

The wassail-song and the wine-cup's measure, 
These shall never touch Hylas more. 

Hark to his coming beyond the wood ! 

The birds sing over him as he goes. 
I will pluck and wear in my maiden mood 

The heart of Hylas, a blood-red rose. 



52 



GUINEVERE TO LANCELOT 

Gone is my Lord, the King; and, Lancelot, never 
May I behold thy face on earth again ; 

For I have sworn it with an oath, to sever 
The bond — blot out the stain. 

Down into Lyonesse my Lord is wending 

His way to fight with Mod red, where his doom 

Bideth his coming, where the crags ascending 
From the dusk sea break in gloom. 

His love is lost to me, and yet he kissed me, 
Oh Lancelot, stooping to me from above, 

And told me how his kingly heart had missed me, 
Since learning of our love. 

O'er his blonde beard rippled in waves my golden 
Loose hair, and oh ! he laid his lips upon 

Mine eyes, as he was wont to in the olden 
Days that are dead and gone. 

And after, rode forth, Lancelot, and on-sweeping, 
Went down to Lyonesse to meet his doom 

In thickening shadows, leaving me here weeping 
Cooped in this nun's bleak room. 



53 



Gone is my Lord, the King! And thou, oh lover! 

Where art thou, Lancelot ? Could I see thy face, 
And feel thy lip touch as in days now over, 

This dull, forsaken place 

Would be as Camelot in time of tourney, 
When thou as knight for me didst aye enlist. 

Ah ! Lancelot, love, there lies a weary journey 
From thee to me, I've wist. 

My Lord, the King, is gone! And I have sworn it! 

May such an oath the white Christ's servant break? 
Oh, long as I can bear it, I have borne it! 

Come, Lancelot of the Lake! 

Aline be the shame, as mine the sin, oh lover! 

Oh Lancelot, sweet, thy way unto me win ! 
His doom Pendragon's fair young head hangs over! 

Mine be the shame, the sin ! 

Come, Lancelot, come, and let us once more wander 
Through purple fields, into the brave, bright day, 

Where blossoms blow, birds sing and brooks meander, 
Out of this night, away ! 

Come, Lancelot, come, and rain thy hot, quick kisses, 
As in old days, on eyes and mouth and chin ! 

Mine be the sin of all thy mad caresses — ■ 
The stain, the shame, the sin ! 



54 



CAST OUT 

Cold, oh so bitter cold the night, 
And in the darkened room 

No single gleam to put to flight 
The shadows and the gloom. 

A little baby lies asleep 

Upon the mother-breast, 
And tear-dimmed eyes a vigil keep 

In agonized unrest. 

Outside the street is bright like day — 

Outside in heedless wise 
The heedless world goes on its way. 

Nor dreams of tear-dimmed eyes. 

Perhaps he mingles with the throng, 
And men and women greet 

With kindly words the living wrong 
Who dares to walk that street. 

Dark, dark the river rolls, and deep 

Beyond the garish light. 
Oh, why not go and sink to sleep 

In its unending night? 



55 



L OF C. 



Ah no ! The baby on her breast — 
The thought its being gives — 

These hold her from a dreamless rest, 
These keep her, that she lives. 



There was a time when women loved 

To look upon her face — • 
When all the world in which she moved 

Was full of peace and grace; 



When laughing plenty at her feet 
Poured out its lavish store, 

And many a man who walks that street 
By her pure being swore. 



But now, the baby on her breast, — 
And now, the bitter cold, — 

The abject want, the wild unrest,- 
And oh, the tale is told. 



56 



BY THE SEA 

An Orphean power the soul to stir 
With music's voice is hers: 

To wake the smile, to start the tear, 
To blot out days and years. 

Outside, the wild waves tossing high 

In ceaseless monotone 
Moan to the dark night's starless sky 

A sorrow all their own. 

But here no gloom of grief can come 

That may not find relief 
In tears, as sweet as love and home, — 

The anodyne of grief. 

Vanish the days with sorrow gray. 
Smile earth and sky and sea, 

What time her wntching fingers sway 
The magic keys for me. 



57 



TIDES 

On a bright morning, in a long-past summer, 
I sat with you beside the ancient seashore. 
The sunlit ocean boomed in on its flood-tide, 
And youth was golden. 

In the far offing sailed the snowy shallops. 
The wanton waves were white and silver crested. 
And life was sunny as the shining morning 
That lay about us. 

And you — across the years I can remember — 
Yours was a paean of young love and laughter, 
While the waves chanting a majestic chorus 
Sang joy eternal. 

Now there is winter in the chill, bleak sunset. 
That lies upon the sleepless, sobbing ocean. 
As the weak waters crawl out where the tide ebbs, 
And leaves us helpless. 

Life has grown cold under a gray December, 
The white-sailed shallops of that day have vanished. 
When we together here in summer's sunshine 
Loved at youth's flood-tide. 

A little while, and you and I, dissevered 
A little while perchance in life's sad winter. 
Shall clasp lost hands once more upon a seashore 
Beyond all parting. 

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